Change of Heart
by n00b-masta2112
Summary: Hazelle Hawthorne has been hired as Haymitch Abernathy's housekeeper. Immediately put off by his rough exterior, she has no interest in getting to know him. As they gradually learn to accept each other, will there be a change of heart? Haymitch/Hazelle
1. First Impressions

**Chapter 1**

**First Impressions**

The sky was shrouded by a veil of clouds as Hazelle Hawthorne made her way through the Seam to the Victor's Village. It was relatively early in the day, and she was on her way to the home of her new employer, the home that was also going to be her workplace.

The home of Haymitch Abernathy.

Katniss had somehow convinced him to hire Hazelle as a housekeeper, a favor for which the mother of four was very grateful. The winner of the 50th Hunger Games had plenty of money, and Hazelle had plenty of stomachs to fill. She'd always struggled, but this opportunity seemed like an ideal chance to turn things around. She never shied away from hard work for the sake of her family, and she was prepared for whatever disaster Haymitch's house may be.

At least she thought so.

As she neared the Abernathy household, Hazelle's stomach turned and she began to chew her bottom lip, wringing her hands nervously. She shot her gaze across the courtyard at the Everdeen and Mellark residences, both of which looked warm and welcoming, even in the dreary half-light of the overcast day.

The only other occupied house in the Victor's Village, on the other hand, didn't appear as friendly. Hazelle turned into the walk and approached the house cautiously, eyeing it guardedly. From the outside, she could see that the windows were nearly opaque with grime, the front door hung awkwardly on its hinges as if it had been slammed a few too many times, and the yard was slightly overgrown and unkept even though the victors were supposedly supplied a groundskeeper to maintain their lawns for them.

Hazelle glanced behind her towards the tidy green between this and the other properties. Everything seemed to be in perfect condition except this yard. She turned warily back to Haymitch Abernathy's front door—before which she now found herself—sure that it had something to do with him. Maybe this job wasn't the best idea after all.

She rearranged the grimace on her face into a polite smile and tapped her knuckles softly against the door. She stood tensely, back ramrod straight, obliging expression pasted on her face, waiting for someone to answer the door. After a minute, when no one did, Hazelle knocked again, a bit louder this time. To be honest, she worried for the door to fall over if she beat it very hard, so the volume hadn't been altered all that much.

After pausing for any response from in the house—footsteps, a voice telling her it would be right there, anything—and receiving nothing, Hazelle silently pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The smell hit her before the chaos around her registered in her mind. She gasped and immediately held her breath, glancing around swiftly for any signs of life. What she found was not the famous Haymitch Abernathy, but his horrible mess that consumed what seemed like every inch of the house.

Dirty clothes and wrinkled papers littered the floor and any other available surface, filthy dishes and rotten food covered whatever the former didn't, and every accessible space between was crammed with empty, broken, discolored bottles of every shape and size imaginable.

The first thought to cross Hazelle's mind was that someone had broken in and trashed the place, but as she wandered further into the house it became clear to her that this was just the way Haymitch lived. She wondered how he did it.

At home, with three young children, Gale, and herself, everything had a place and order was enforced without exception. Everyone in the house contributed to keeping it tidy and livable. Here, with one perfectly capable resident, the entire place was one giant trash can. Hazelle couldn't take two steps without her path being obstructed by some form of waste.

Disgusting, Hazelle thought to herself. This man is disgusting.

She hadn't even met him yet.

Hazelle continued to wade through the rubble carefully, searching for Haymitch. Or some cleaning supplies.

"Mr. Abernathy?" she called softly. "Is anyone here?"

Turning off the hall into what appeared to have once been a living room, she spotted him. She was pretty sure it was him anyway.

The man was snoring softly, laying face down on a formerly beautiful sofa, its intricately-patterned fabric now stained and tearing. His dark hair was uncombed and spilling in thick curls and knots over his face and forearm, which was propped under his cheek as a sort of makeshift pillow. His other arm was draped over the end of the couch, a half-empty bottle of cloudy liquor clutched loosely in his hand.

Hazelle wrinkled her nose and decided not to disturb him after all. She backed out the room and crept towards the stairs, deciding to start on the second level, hoping desperately it wasn't as bad as the first.

It was.

The untidiness continued up the stairs onto the next floor, where it appeared to have been left untouched for a much longer window of time. Piles of useless rubbish filled every room and obscured the beauty of the fully furnished home provided for the victor.

Hazelle couldn't help but feel offended by Haymitch's wastefulness. She, who had nothing and struggled to keep food on the table, saw all these potentially valuable things shoved aside and wasted and felt slighted. If Haymitch had all these wonderful things he didn't use or appreciate, why were there thousands starving to death in the Seam every day?

He must have forgotten where he came from.

Hazelle pushed the feeling to the back of her mind and set to work. She found a large cloth sack that she shook out and immediately began filling with various unusable items in the first bedroom upstairs. She managed to salvage a few dishes that could be scrubbed clean and several stacks of books that Haymitch may want to hang on to, setting them together in a clear corner of the room. Focused and efficient, she was making fast progress.

When the bag was filled to the brim, she did her best to haul it down the steps without being too noisy.

No such luck.

"Who's there?" a gruff voice barked from the front room.

Hazelle froze in her tracks at the bottom of the staircase.

Shuffling could be heard from the other room, and then, there, groggy and hungover, poised to strike from the doorway, bottle replaced with knife in hand, was none other than Haymitch Abernathy. His sharp grey eyes scanned Hazelle's slight form up and down, scrutinizing her for any sign of a threat. Finding none, he relaxed, lowering the knife to his side.

She cleared her throat, stood up straight, and opened her mouth to speak.

"Who are you?" Haymitch asked coarsely before she had the chance. "And what are you doing in my house?" His eyes flicked to the full sack at her feet. He sized her up again. Then, his voice laden with sarcasm, his lips pulling up at the edges, he teased, "Robbing me?" He cracked a smile and slouched against the doorframe, running a hand through his disheveled hair absently.

"Um," said Hazelle quietly, shifting her weight to her other foot. "No—"

"But really," Haymitch continued, relaxing. "What are you doing with that?" He nodded at the garbage sack.

Hazelle looked down at the sack as well, as if she had forgotten she was carrying it. She lifted her gaze back up to Haymitch's, a bit red in the face. "Cleaning," she replied. "I'm Hazelle, your new housekeeper."

Haymitch stared steadily at her for a few moments. She fidgeted uncomfortably under his intense gaze, glancing at her feet, then up at him, then back down again.

"Well then," Haymitch said finally. "Continue."

Hazelle nodded and proceeded to lug the bag towards the door, but not without difficulty. It was very full, very heavy, and very loud. Everything inside clanged together as the bag dragged slowly across the floor. Haymitch turned and headed back into the front room, yawning and rubbing his fist against his eye sleepily.

"And Hazelle?" he called as he lay back down on the sofa. "Another thing."

She left the sack momentarily to poke her head into the other room. "Yes?"

"Try to keep it down," he advised in a condescending tone, shifting positions on the couch heavily. "I do need my beauty rest." He grinned at her sarcastically, winked, and closed his eyes without another word.

Hazelle scowled at him for a moment before returning to the hallway where she had left her work. She had trouble throwing herself back into her task and couldn't make herself look at working for Haymitch as a positive opportunity anymore. His unpleasantness left a sour taste in her mouth and a foul mood hanging over her head. As far as first impressions go, she thought, Haymitch Abernathy does not leave a particularly good one.

**A/N: I'm honestly not very happy with this. I apologize for the yucky boringness of this chapter, but I needed to include it to set up the rest of the story. I promise the next chapter will be better, with less dull description and more character development and relationship building! Please review :)**


	2. Tolerance

**Chapter 2**

**Tolerance**

Working for Haymitch didn't get much easier. When Hazelle arrived in the mornings he was usually passed out, and she had to take great care not to wake him, because when she did, he was never in a pleasant mood. He made jeering comments when he was awake and often got in the way of Hazelle's work.

So far, she had bitten her tongue and ignored him.

But now, at the end of her second week as Haymitch's housekeeper, Hazelle was about to reach her limit. She was up to her elbows in soapy water, scouring the dishes from the mountain on the counter beside her clean. She had just finished clearing out and organizing the kitchen the day before and needed to make at least a little progress on the growing pile of dirty dishes waiting patiently for her attention.

Strands of long dark hair were coming loose from where they were tied together at the nape of her neck, falling in her eyes as she concentrated on her chore. It had been a sunny and relatively nice day, so Hazelle had cracked a window in the kitchen to let the breeze blow in and air out the stale house. Orange light from the setting sun slanted through the glass onto the newly scrubbed floor, and the light curtains floated gently from the windowpane. Haymitch was out, most likely getting drunk, so Hazelle's work was not disrupted.

She wasn't feeling bad at all. Almost happy, even. The weather was beautiful and the house was looking better and better every day. Haymitch had slept through her hours the day before and she was hoping he would stay out long enough for her to finish today. She couldn't bear it if he ruined her good mood.

As if on cue, the front door slammed open and the man himself stumbled across the threshold into the house.

Hazelle looked up from the sink and frowned in the direction of the entrance. Haymitch was still banging around a bit and grumbling incoherently.

"Mr. Abernathy?" she called, sounding slightly cross to her own ears.

Haymitch staggered into the kitchen, reeking of alcohol and looking a bit tousled as he waved his hand toward Hazelle. "Jesus, no," he rasped gruffly. "You make me sound like an old man. Just Haymitch."

"Um, Haymitch?" She noticed the trail of mud he was tracking in from outside, his boots caked with dirt, and silently disapproved. Do grown men not wipe their feet when they come in? She thought of her boys at home and felt proud of how disciplined they were in comparison to Haymitch. She should be paid as a babysitter as well as a maid.

He pulled a bottle from the cupboard and lurched toward the table. "Grab me a glass, would you?" he slurred as he plopped down in a chair.

Hazelle dried her hands on her apron and strode across the room to a shelf decorated with clear and, astonishingly, clean glasses to remove one for Haymitch. She filled it with water before placing it on the table for him.

He uncapped the bottle and picked up the glass, staring at it in confusion when he realized the sloshing liquid in it was not alcohol. "What's this?" he bellowed, glowering up at Hazelle with hard slate eyes.

"Water," she told him, taking the liquor from his hand and nodding. "Better than this stuff."

Haymitch reached for the bottle, but Hazelle held it just out of his reach.

"Haymitch," she said firmly. "Drink it."

He grimaced at the glass in his other hand and shook his head. "Not a chance, bitch," he said flatly before dumping its contents onto the floor. "Now give that to me."

Hazelle stared furiously at him for a moment before shaking her head and taking a step away, starting back for the sink, bottle in hand. Haymitch caught her other arm before she had a chance, rooting her in place. His fingers dug painfully into her flesh; he was holding her too roughly.

"Let go," she gasped, attempting to yank her arm out of his grasp. He tightened his grip further, knuckles whitening.

"I said," he growled impatiently, "give that to me." He repeated himself slowly, as if Hazelle were a child.

"And I said no!" she cried, tugging futilely away from him again. "You don't need this. Go lie down and leave me alone."

All at once Haymitch released Hazelle, shoved her away forcefully, and rose from his seat. Losing her balance, Hazelle reeled away and fell to the floor, landing hard on her side. The bottle of whiskey rolled to a corner of the kitchen, spilling clear liquid from its lip in a straight line, as Hazelle pulled herself to her feet.

"Don't you _dare_ tell me how to live my life," Haymitch shouted at her, thrusting a finger into her face, his other hand clenched into a fist at his side, looking ready to lash out and strangle something. "You don't know anything!"

Hazelle trembled before him, suddenly feeling very small and wishing she hadn't interfered. Maybe it wasn't her place, but she felt somewhat responsible for Haymitch. He was drinking himself away to nothing. She thought she knew him, and what was best for him.

"You don't know what this feels like!" he yelled angrily, pointing vaguely to his chest, shaking. "You don't know what it's like to watch children die at your hands. You don't know what it's like to kill them. You don't lie awake at night to escape the nightmares that lurk in the dark. You don't hear their screams everywhere, all the time…" He trailed off and ran his hand over his face, closing his pained eyes and taking a deep, ragged breath.

Hazelle backed toward the wall a little bit, shuddering at the thought. She really didn't know anything. Haymitch fought in the Hunger Games, years ago. She sometimes forgot. She couldn't even begin to imagine what horrors he faced, and she didn't want to.

"So you drink…?" she murmured, almost inaudibly.

Haymitch nodded and sighed, dropping his hand and collapsing back into the chair heavily. "I drink," he said, "to numb it."

He looked haunted, defeated. He sat motionless, head in his hands, while Hazelle trudged to where the bottle of liquor rested on its side, half its contents pooled on the floor around it. She picked it up and returned it to the table before Haymitch. He didn't look up as she filled the now-empty glass and set it beside the bottle, or as she cleaned up the mess left by their argument wordlessly.

She drained the water in the sink and untied her apron, leaving it folded neatly on the counter by the dishes for the next day.

Hesitating in the doorway, she looked back at Haymitch, still unmoving at the table where she left him. She would let him drink, she decided, for now. He deserved to dull the pain and fear the Games instilled in him, at least for a little while. No one should have to face that head-on, alone. She thought of Katniss and wished her well, but knew she had Peeta to help her endure the aftereffects and repercussions of the Hunger Games. And Gale, if she wanted him. She had her mother and sister as well. A lot of people loved Katniss.

But Haymitch.

Haymitch didn't have anybody.

He only had alcohol to get him through this.

And she wouldn't take that from him.

**A/N: I think that chapter turned out a lot better than the last :) Review, tell me what you think, and I'll update soon!**


	3. The Other Side

**Chapter 3**

**The Other Side **

"Careful," Hazelle reminded her daughter absentmindedly, her grey eyes fixed on an invisible spot in the distance. She was worrying again, and not only for Posy, who toddled along ahead of her obliviously. Hazelle worried for what would happen once they reached their destination.

Please don't let Haymitch be terribly drunk today, she prayed to herself. Let him be out again, or dead asleep. And don't let him wake up. She fussed with the hem of her skirt, running it nervously between her thin fingers, and continued to stare into space, chewing her bottom lip fretfully. As she and Posy neared Haymitch's residence, Hazelle became more and more anxious, dreading what awaited her on the other side of the door every step she took.

"Posy," she said gently, and swung the little girl into her arms, propping her against her hip. "Remember to be quiet, okay? And don't run around. Best behavior."

Posy nodded solemnly and tucked her head against her mother's shoulder.

"That's my girl." Hazelle smoothed her hair and pushed the door open effortlessly, peering into the house as she stepped inside and heard the latch click behind her. Padding down the moderately clear entryway, she glanced into the front room, expecting to find Haymitch asleep on the couch where he usually was. The room was empty.

Hazelle breathed a sigh of relief, drawing the conclusion that Haymitch had gone into town and wouldn't be home for hours. She continued down the hallway and entered the kitchen to get started with the dishes she left unfinished the day before. What greeted her there was not the promise of the peaceful, Haymitch-free day she had anticipated.

Quite the opposite.

He stood at the stove, his back to the doorway, grumbling faintly under his breath. Thankfully, he appeared showered and dressed, and when he turned around Hazelle saw that he was also freshly shaved. Her breath caught in her throat. He looked years younger. And sober.

"G-good morning, Haymitch," she said, lowering Posy from her hip onto the shiny wood floor.

Haymitch raised his eyebrows at the child before nodding at Hazelle. "Morning," he grunted, then turned back to the stove.

"What are you doing?" Hazelle asked as she strode across the kitchen to where Haymitch was struggling to prepare what looked like a previously edible portion of eggs.

"Cooking?" he answered, his voice lilting up apprehensively at the end, as if he was unsure if that was, indeed, what he was doing.

"Let me help you with that," Hazelle said, plucking the spatula from Haymitch's hand and taking his place at the stove. He backed off gratefully, retrieving a carton of eggs and setting it on the counter beside the stove.

"You might wanna just start over," he mumbled, averting his eyes.

Hazelle nodded and dumped the charred remains from the pan into the trash. "Thought you could make breakfast?"

"Thought I'd try," replied Haymitch, turning and leaning back against the counter, facing the opposite way. Posy was trotting softly around the room, examining everything curiously and silently. Haymitch watched her for a moment before saying lowly, "So, the kid…?"

"Is mine," replied Hazelle quickly. "I'm sorry. I couldn't find anyone to watch her and I thought you'd be out or asleep or something." She cracked a few eggs into the sizzling pan. "She won't be a problem, I promise."

Haymitch kept his eyes steadily on the little girl as she explored his kitchen. "Okay," he agreed slowly, nodding uncertainly.

Hazelle glanced up at him, then back down at the food. She scraped the mass of egg yolks and whites around the pan thoughtfully before murmuring, "I'm glad to see you cleaned up."

Slate grey eyes bore into the side of her skull as Haymitch turned and stared at her. She didn't look up.

"For her sake, I mean," Hazelle went on. Thankfully, Haymitch returned his gaze to the child again. "She doesn't have a whole lot of male role models, so I'm glad she won't be around you when you're…you know. It's hard enough already."

"What's her name?" asked Haymitch softly.

Hazelle smiled down at the eggs. "Posy."

"Posy," Haymitch repeated, nodding to himself, his eyes still following the little girl around the room. "She looks like you."

Hazelle didn't reply, and a veil of silence settled over the room. Posy's light footsteps pattering over the floor was the only sound. Hazelle turned off the stove and moved the eggs to another burner. Without being asked, Haymitch shuffled to a cupboard and brought down three clean plates and set them on the kitchen table.

"Are you hungry?" he asked Posy gently.

The little girl looked up and him and nodded before climbing onto a chair and pulling one of the plates to her place. Haymitch returned to the counter next to the stove and opened a drawer, removing three forks and taking them to the table as well.

"I'm surprised you know where everything is," said Hazelle as she carried the eggs to the table and sat down.

Haymitch shrugged and took a seat as well.

Hazelle served breakfast and they all ate without a word. Posy chewed politely and stared, wide-eyed, at Haymitch, who was poised awkwardly at the edge of his chair, as if contemplating the best time to make a run for it. Hazelle surveyed them both warily, simultaneously fearful that Haymitch would say something inappropriate in front of Posy and that Posy would say something upsetting to Haymitch that might cost Hazelle her job.

"I'll clean this up," Hazelle volunteered, rising from her seat and beginning to clear the table.

Haymitch also stood, but Posy stayed where she was, perched in her chair like a bird of prey. "Would you like to see my home?" Haymitch asked her, bending down slightly to be closer to her level. "I'd be happy to give you the grand tour." He winked and held out his hand, a grin spreading shyly across his face.

Posy and Hazelle both stared at him for a few seconds before Posy nodded and returned his smile, taking his hand and hopping down from her seat. Haymitch led her from the room, glancing back in the doorway and nodding reassuringly at Hazelle, who was still frozen at the table, eyes wide. Her fears were on high alert now.

She stiffly rinsed the breakfast dishes and set them in the pile with the rest, picking up her apron and tying it around her waist. She grabbed a rag and wiped down the table and stove, listening acutely for any sign of commotion from the rest of the house, Haymitch or Posy.

Then she heard something. From the second story.

Dropping the rag and hustling out of the room, Hazelle wondered what could be going on. Was Posy crying? Did she get hurt? Did Haymitch hurt her? She didn't think he would do that, but that sound…

She scrambled up the stairs and down the hallway at the top, frantically checking each room she passed for her daughter or Haymitch.

Then she realized what she heard was not crying. It was…laughter.

Posy was laughing. Hazelle turned and stood in the doorway of one of the upstairs bedrooms, the one she had turned into a sort of library. Haymitch was inside with her daughter, helping her stack books together, building something.

He placed one on the top of their tower precariously. The tower wobbled, and Posy giggled. Then it toppled over, and Posy squealed with laughter, clapping her hands together delightedly. Even Haymitch was smirking.

Hazelle softened and rested her back gently against the doorframe, smiling to herself. She was seeing a whole new side of Haymitch. She had figured, since he didn't have any children or experience with children that she knew of, that he disliked them. But, clearly, he didn't. He was rather good with them, actually. At least with Posy.

They were starting to reassemble their tower when Haymitch glanced up and caught Hazelle's eye. Posy kept her eyes on her task as Haymitch rose from his place beside her and strode to the door where Hazelle was standing.

"You're good with her," she told him as he leaned against the other side of the doorjamb.

"She's a sweet kid," said Haymitch, stuffing his hands in his pockets and watching Posy play.

Hazelle nodded in agreement and watched her as well. The child looked up and grinned at her mother and Haymitch before returning her attention to the book tower excitedly.

"I'm sorry about the other night," Haymitch blurted out suddenly. "When I blew up at you."

He was looking at Hazelle now, intensely. She didn't return his gaze. "I'm sorry I judged you," she murmured. "I had no right to do that."

"But you were sort of right," said Haymitch, running his hand through his hair absently. "There are other ways to…you know. There are other ways."

"Maybe." Hazelle crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't know what you go through, so who am I to tell you how to deal with it?"

"Nobody knows what I go through," agreed Haymitch, closing his eyes and sighing. "But maybe that's my fault."

Hazelle finally lifted her head and turned to him.

"I've never tried letting anyone in."

She cast her eyes back town and tucked a stray piece of dark hair behind her ear.

"And maybe I should."

**A/N: I'll leave you with that for now. In upcoming chapters, Hazelle and Haymitch will continue to learn about each other and grow closer. Haymitch may possibly bond more with Posy, and Hazelle reveals more about the rest of her family and her past. REVIEW and I'll update faster (: **


	4. False Hope

**Chapter 4**

**False Hope**

At the end of the week, Hazelle had a day off. She took the opportunity to spend some time with her children in the morning before they headed of to school.

Rory and Vick sat at the table in their dim, low-ceilinged kitchen, devouring a loaf of bread Hazelle had purchased at the butcher shop with her hefty Victor's Village paycheck. Posy was across the room in the half that passed for a living room, seated on the floor, attempting to recreate the book tower she built at Haymitch's. Gale was halfway out the door, his boots still unlaced, bread dangling out of his mouth as he shrugged into his heavy miner's jacket.

"I'll be back after seven tonight," he told his mother, taking the bread from his mouth and hovering in the doorway. "And then I can help you make dinner, entertain the kids or something. Whatever you need."

"Nothing," Hazelle reassured her oldest son, crossing the room in a few short strides to pat his cheek and smile. "You're doing so much already."

Gale's gaze shifted behind her to the boys at the table, who were now fighting playfully over the last slice of bread. "Yeah, yeah," he said vaguely. "Enjoy your day off."

Hazelle patted his cheek one more time before straightening the collar on his jacket and letting him slip out the door. He strode briskly down the dawn-lit street toward the mines, finishing his breakfast and adjusting his hair with his fingers as he did. Hazelle watched him amble around the corner before turning back to the young ones.

"Are you boys almost finished?" she asked Rory and Vick, pushing in a chair across from them at the table.

They nodded and brushed the crumbs from their lips.

"Go get dressed," she urged them, shooing them from the room. They scampered away, racing each other down the narrow hallway to the bedroom they shared, hooting and hollering the whole way.

Hazelle grinned after them and approached Posy on the floor. "Hey little lady," she said, taking a seat beside her. "How's the tower coming?"

Posy pouted at her short stack of books disapprovingly. "It was better when Mr. Haymitch did it."

"I bet it was," agreed Hazelle good-naturedly, rumpling her daughter's hair and placing a peck on her round little cheek. "He's got quite the collection."

The little girl nodded and repositioned the top book in her pile. "I like Mr. Haymitch's house. When can I go back?"

"Oh," Hazelle started to say uncertainly. "Oh, I don't know if that's—"

"When can _we_ go?" Vick whined from behind them. Hazelle turned around to see both boys hanging over the back of the battered sofa, their shirts wrinkled and their hair uncombed.

"Boys—"

"I wanna see the Victor's Village!" moaned Rory.

"Me too!" Vick concurred shrilly.

"Why did _she_ get to go and we didn't?"

"We wanna go too!"

"Boys, listen," Hazelle interrupted, raising her voice to be heard over the complaining. "Haymitch may not want you to come see his house. Did you think of that?" Two blank faces were her answer. She blinked and stood up, massaging her temples and squeezing her eyes shut.

"But—"

"_Posy_ got to go!"

"He wanted _Posy_ to come see his house?"

"Why does _she_—"

"We wanna go too!"

They were jumping around now, throwing themselves melodramatically from one side of the room to the other, their voices escalating with each desperate exclamation. Posy was still positioned calmly on the floor, watching the whole scene with a critical eye, and Hazelle still had her hands on her head.

"Alright!" Hazelle snapped. The boys halted and looked hopefully in their mother's direction. "We will see about you visiting the Victor's Village, okay? Maybe Katniss will show you her house."

"What?"

"No!"

"We don't wanna see _Katniss_—"

"Posy got to see Haymitch's—"

Rory and Vick took up their piercing bleating again and it was all Hazelle could do to calm them down. "Fine! I will ask Haymitch about bringing you over—maybe!" She wagged her finger at her sons. "But if he says no—that's that. The answer's no."

They exploded into cheers and congratulated each other on their irresistible persuasiveness. Hazelle rolled her eyes and herded the boys toward the door.

"Let's get to school, boys! Come on now. Shoes on. Coats buttoned."

Posy toddled over to her mother and tugged gently at the hem of her skirt. "What are _we_ gonna do today?" she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand, hiding from her brothers. "Go see Mr. Haymitch?"

"No, sweetie," said Hazelle, bending down to pick up her daughter, who was jutting her bottom lip out slightly in disappointment. "Today is mommy's day off! We don't have to go to Haymitch's today. We're going to run errands in town." The little girl brightened at the mention of town and beamed at her mother. Hazelle chuckled and called to the boys, "Be good!" as they filed out the door and started for school.

Posy waved after them before squirming down from her mother's arms and scurrying over to her book tower, which she immediately began disassembling.

"Are you going to be ready to go soon?" Hazelle asked her, clearing the table of Rory's and Vick's breakfast dishes.

The child nodded but kept her eyes on the books in her arms, now towing them back to the rickety shelf against the wall. "Cleaning up."

"That's my girl." Hazelle smiled warmly and finished straightening up the kitchen herself.

When both sides of the room were nice and tidy, Hazelle buttoned Posy into her coat and laced up her tiny shoes. The little girl stood patiently and asked again if they were going to see Haymitch.

"No, remember? We're going into town." Hazelle tucked her daughter's little head into a knit hat and kissed her forehead before straightening up and locating her own jacket.

"But after?" Posy persisted. "Can we see Mr. Haymitch after?"

"Posy," said Hazelle firmly. "We don't need to see him today." She tied her own boots, pushing thoughts of the man from her mind, and marched out the door. Posy jogged after without another word. "We do, however, need to see Mr. Mellark. Remember him?"

The little girl nodded and took her mother's hand gingerly. "Bread?"

"Right." Hazelle squeezed the little hand in hers as they strolled down the street toward the center of town, to the bakery. "Your brothers cleaned us out, didn't they?" She chuckled and steered Posy around a shabby-looking figure face down in the gutter. The little girl slowed down and craned her neck to see the face of the man. Feeling her hesitation, Hazelle looked down and saw as well. The man groaned a bit and rolled halfway over, his dark hair falling away from his face.

Her breath froze in her lungs, then blazed through her. She was on fire.

It was Haymitch.

"Posy," said Hazelle urgently, pulling Posy away insistently before she could recognize him and continuing down the road at a much quicker pace than before. She would not let her daughter see Haymitch like that, not after she raved about him, practically idolized him.

She could understand him going to one of the taverns in The Seam to drink for a change of scenery and maybe some company, but that close to her dwelling? Posy's? Why would Haymitch do that? Why would he get wasted off his head and pass out in a gutter just a few blocks from Hazelle's? And a few days after spending that time with Posy? He seemed so together that day.

She thought meeting her daughter had made an impact on Haymitch. She thought he meant what he said about letting someone in, possibly getting better. She thought that someone might be her. She thought maybe he would ease up a bit, see the error of his ways or some rubbish like that. But obviously, she was mistaken. He was just the same as he always had been.

Hazelle's face burned and her grip on Posy's hand tightened. It was one thing for Haymitch to appear indecently before her on a near-daily basis, but her daughter? That was another story altogether. The man had no class, she decided, and she would not have her children around someone like him. She'd have to tell Rory and Vick they couldn't see the Victor's Village after all. They'd be disappointed, but she supposed Haymitch wouldn't care about that. He didn't care about anything.

"Mommy?" came Posy's small voice from below.

Hazelle slackened her grasp and glanced down at the child. "Yes, sweetie?" She tried to sound as undisturbed as possible, so as not to alarm Posy, but her voice cracked a little. She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a smile to her face.

"Are you okay?"

"Of course," Hazelle replied, returning her gaze to the street ahead. "And look, we're almost to the bakery. Want to see all the pretty cakes?"

Posy squealed and detached herself from her mother to dash ahead and press her nose against the glass of the show window, all signs of trouble vacated from her mind. Hazelle breathed a sigh of relief and quickened her pace to catch up to her daughter, still red in the face and reeling over Haymitch's unacceptable display. Posy tugged on her arm and pointed at the pretty cookies and cakes, begging for a treat, pulling her back to reality.

She'd have to deal with Haymitch later.

**A/N: This chapter was originally supposed to include Hazelle confronting Haymitch the next time she worked and whatever, but it got to be so long that I decided I'd put it into the next chapter. I'm also considering writing it from Haymitch's POV. What say you? Also, review this chapter even though it's a bit slow. Thank you thank you.**


	5. Heaven

**Chapter 5**

**Heaven**

Haymitch's head hurt. He was hungry and sore and was in dire need of a bath, but all he could think about was how much his head hurt. He couldn't really even think about it, actually, because it hurt so badly. He scratched the back of said hurting head and continued to lurch forward in what he hoped was the direction of his home.

Damn unbearable hangovers. You'd think he'd have grown used to them by now.

"Need a drink," he grumbled as he entered the gates to the Victor's Village, rubbing his ringed eyes with dirty hands and yawning widely.

If he had been thinking straight—which he obviously wasn't—Haymitch would've applauded himself arrogantly, as he was accustomed to, on navigating his way back even though he was seeing double and wasn't able to walk in a straight line. It was small feats like these that kept Haymitch drinking. If he could still find his way home he wasn't drunk enough. If he couldn't fog memories of the gore-splattered faces of slaughtered children from his mind he wasn't drunk enough.

He never seemed to be drunk enough.

Staggering across the green to his house, Haymitch tried to remember what day it was. Yesterday was Thursday…or was that two days ago? Was Hazelle working today? He hoped not. Peace and quiet sounded glorious. She better not have brought that little girl along today—Posy. He was awfully hammered and didn't think Hazelle would be terribly happy about his state if her daughter was around. He didn't think he'd be too happy about that either. That Hawthorne girl was one innocent kid. He would hate to become a bad influence.

He liked her. He hated to admit it, but he was developing a soft spot for that little girl. Maybe her mother too. No, he thought. No, no, no, not her mother. Definitely not her mother. The last thing he needed in his life was a woman. Things were complicated enough.

Haymitch's head pounded a bit harder, blood pulsating in his ears. He really needed to stop thinking and just get some sleep.

The door to his house was, thankfully, unlocked, so he shoved it open and stumbled inside. It slammed behind him and he winced, collapsing against the wall, covering his ears.

"Goddamn," he muttered, massaging his head tenderly where it hit the wall and dragging himself awkwardly to his feet. He wobbled down the hall into the front room and threw himself onto the couch, sighing deeply and letting his eyes fall shut.

* * *

"Haymitch?"

Goddamn. Haymitch grunted and rolled away from the voice.

"Haymitch?" it said again. Hazelle. Damn woman. Why didn't she let him sleep?

His eyes snapped open and he sat up, a pain shooting sharply through his head as he did, to glare at Hazelle. "What the hell do you want?" he growled at her, eyes narrowed.

Hazelle blinked. She was kneeling beside the couch, one hand on the armrest, one on Haymitch's shoulder. She removed it hastily and cleared her throat, straightening up. "I know it's my day off and…"

"And?" barked Haymitch irritably, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa and rubbing his eyes sleepily with his fist.

"And," continued Hazelle, "I know you probably don't care or whatever, but I saw you today. In The Seam. Passed out."

Haymitch stared at her blankly.

"Drunk," she said. "I saw you passed out drunk. Posy was with me."

Haymitch groaned and covered his face with his hands again. "Fuck," he said softly. Then a few more profanities. Then, "You're kidding me."

Hazelle shook her head and glanced out the window to the courtyard beyond. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and looked back at Haymitch. "She didn't recognize you," she told him, then added, "I don't think. I hurried her away so she wouldn't."

"Good," said Haymitch, dropping his hands but still not looking at Hazelle.

"But really, Haymitch? Why would you do that?"

Because that's what I do, Haymitch wanted to say, but he didn't, slightly taken aback by her tone. She sounded really…_pissed_. He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes and saw she had her slender arms crossed over her chest and had a genuinely upset expression on her face. Did he do that? Did he hurt her somehow?

"Do what?" he mumbled half-heartedly.

Hazelle threw her arms up and spun around, pacing a few steps in the opposite direction. Haymitch shot a fleeting look over his shoulder out the window behind him. The sun was just touching the horizon. He wondered where Posy and her brothers were now. Probably with Gale, he figured as he realized Gale's shift at the mines would have ended a short while ago.

"She really likes you," Hazelle said quietly, her back still to Haymitch.

He returned his gaze to the woman before him. "Posy?"

"Yeah. Talked about you all day yesterday and today, asking when she could come back."

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Haymitch's lips. He really was fond of that little girl.

"The boys want to come too. Rory and Vick. I promised them I'd ask you."

Haymitch tried to picture Hazelle's family in The Seam. He tried to place the little girl he'd met earlier that week in a tiny, dim dwelling without enough food to eat. He tried to put two little boys into the house in his head. "How old are they?" he asked Hazelle softly.

She sighed and Haymitch saw her shoulders sag a little. Even from the back, she looked so tired. Defeated. "Rory…is twelve, and Vick is ten."

They were added to Haymitch's mental picture, holding Posy between them, each one pressing his lips against one of Posy's rosy cheeks. She was giggling and trying to wriggle out of their embrace. Then Gale appeared in the image, tall and somber, covered in coal dust and struggling to mask the agony on his face. He suffered for his family, and he suffered for Katniss. He loved her too, Haymitch remembered. That girl sure had a lot of admirers. Finally, Hazelle faded into the portrait, grinning widely despite her tired eyes. She had an arm around Gale and an arm around the younger kids.

She looked…_right_, like she belonged in that decrepit old shack, surrounded by her children and poverty. But something was missing from the picture.

"Where's their father?" Haymitch whispered, watching Hazelle carefully, trying to gauge her reaction.

She hesitated, tensing a bit. The silence filled the space between them, building an invisible bridge that Hazelle was mentally preparing cross. The next words to pass her lips were uttered so softly Haymitch had to strain his ears to hear them.

Wrapping her arms around her torso, as if trying to hold herself together, Hazelle murmured, "Heaven."

Haymitch sometimes doubted such a place existed, but the way Hazelle said it, so sure and full of conviction, made him believe it existed for her, and for her wonderful daughter, and for the man that helped create the perfect little girl Haymitch had grown so attached to so quickly. He didn't think he could ever make something or someone so pure and sweet.

Hazelle sniffled softly, and it dawned on Haymitch that she was crying. He rose from his seat on the couch and approached her noiselessly. He wished he knew how to handle a situation like this—how to comfort someone so obviously mourning the loss of someone irreplaceable. How to comfort someone he cared about. He could admit it now, that he cared for her in some way. He wasn't quite sure what that way was or how to sort out his feelings, but that didn't matter then.

All that mattered was the brokenhearted woman in his living room, her back turned to him and the setting sun, and the suddenly traversable distance between them. He extended his hand to her, uncertain. His quivering fingers hovered over her slight shoulder. Would reaching out and touching her solve anything? Would it move them forward or back in any way? Would it undo anything that had already been done?

The answers to questions didn't matter either. All that mattered was Hazelle. His hand descended to rest on her shoulder gently, the warm life pulsing beneath his fingers warming him and making him feel…different.

This was alien to him.

This feeling that…that someone else needed him.

This feeling that another human being relied on him for something.

This feeling that he could help, make a difference, something.

He felt warm and full, like there were endless possibilities that filled him up to the brim until he was overflowing, spilling warmth through his fingertips into this grieving woman he just might be able to mend.

Maybe this was what heaven felt like.

**A/N: I'm really proud of this chapter, and the fact that I cranked out two in one day! I like writing from Haymitch's POV better actually, so maybe there'll be more alternating points of view in the future. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the double update! Review please (:**


	6. Face Off

A/N: I'm pretty disappointed with the lack of feedback for the last chapter. I was pretty happy with that one too! Oh well though. I'm feeding you another update anyway. But you better review for this one! It's the longest, most dramatic one yet. (: Enjoy.

P.S. I forgot to include a language warning for the last chaper, but it's not that big of a deal. Here: Language warning. Chapters 5 and 6. Now go read and review, sillies!

**Chapter 6**

**Face Off**

Haymitch's reflection stared pitifully back at him through the mirror. His unsettled grey eyes were softer than they had been in years, his thick eyebrows curving sadly above them. His lips were drooping down at the edges, his chin, cheeks and neck covered vaguely in dark stubble. Curly black hair hung too far down his forehead, over his ears, onto his neck. He could really use a haircut.

He pushed the hair off his face with his hand, holding it atop his head and sighing at the mirror. Hazelle had left shortly after the incident. She had allowed Haymitch to place his hand on her shoulder. She had cried, but she didn't let him see. She remained turned the other way.

She kept him out.

"Sorry Haymitch," she had said, shrugging his hand off and taking a few steps toward the door, her back still turned, her head ducked low. "Thank you."

Sorry? Thank you? Haymitch hadn't understood her. He just stood there dumbly as she slipped out the front door and across the green, out of the Victor's Village. Back to her home. Back to her children. Back to her life.

Haymitch stayed there until the sun was well behind the horizon and the moon took its place, lighting the world in an eerie silver glow, filling the house with shadows and doubt. He sighed and paced and wondered.

What did she want him to do? Did she want him to stop drinking? He couldn't do that. He needed something to numb the haunting memories. He needed something. Did she want him to stay away from Posy if he wouldn't stop drinking? He didn't think he could do that either, at first. But then he thought, and he figured he could go without anyone and everyone, as long as he had his painkiller. As long as he had a full bottle in one hand and a knife in the other. That's how he'd always lived, anyway.

People didn't matter to him. Wealth didn't matter to him. Fame didn't matter to him. He didn't want or need any of those, he thought. He'd gotten along well enough this long alone. Cutting himself off from the rest of the world seemed to be working just fine for him.

If he didn't care about possessions, the Capitol couldn't rob him of them. If he didn't care about appearances, he could act however the hell he wanted and the Capitol couldn't hold his reputation against him. If he didn't care about people—if he didn't let anyone in—the Capitol couldn't hurt them. They'd killed so much of him already; he couldn't let anyone else get hurt.

But maybe…maybe he'd already let that happen. Twenty-three times in a row. Maybe, by giving up and not caring about the tributes he'd failed as a mentor, he had stood idly by and let them get murdered. Maybe he as good as murdered them himself.

Haymitch shook his head and passed his hand over his eyes.

Katniss. Peeta. They'd survived the Hunger Games. He hadn't let them die. He hadn't failed completely. It had taken almost a quarter of a century, but he had finally done something right.

He'd have to find a way to do that again.

* * *

Haymitch's house was empty when Hazelle tentatively entered the next morning. She breathed a sigh of relief, convinced herself she didn't care where he was and what he was doing, and proceeded to the backyard. She had erected a makeshift clothesline a few days earlier and had a big metal tub and a washboard ready to go. A basket of dirty laundry was waiting for her just inside the door.

After filling the tub and grabbing a bar of soap, Hazelle set to work. It was another sunny day, and a warm breeze blew through her hair and light dress as she scrubbed. It was days like this that she lived for.

A couple hours passed easily, and soon the clothesline was half full of Haymitch's now-clean clothes, swaying subtly in the gentle wind as they dried. Hazelle was nearing the bottom of the basket and rose from her seat on the back steps for a break and to retrieve more clothes.

With the basket propped on her hip, she elbowed the screen door open and strolled through the house to the kitchen. She filled a glass with water and leaned against the counter to drink, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

Hazelle's rest was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Her eyes fluttered open and she set the glass resolutely on the counter, straightening her dress and picking the basket back up. She was determined to act like the previous night never happened. She stood up straight and marched purposefully from the room, meeting Haymitch in the hallway.

"Hazelle," he said, nodding at her formally.

"Haymitch," she said, equally devoid of warmth, before turning the other way and continuing through the house toward the back. She made it past the stairs and halfway down the hall before Haymitch spoke again.

"Is this how it's going to be now?" he asked, and he didn't even sound mean. He sounded more…_hurt_.

Hazelle turned slowly, arranging her face into a stoic mask. "What?"

"Are we just…" His eyes raised to the ceiling and one hand found his forehead. "Are we strangers now?"

He looked different, Hazelle noticed. Sober. Clean. Had he cut his hair? Bathed? He was trying, she realized. He didn't want to be strangers. She wasn't sure what she wanted herself. "Haven't we always been?" she said finally, turning again so her back was to him. She wasn't sure she could keep her face impassive much longer.

"Why do you do that?"

"What?" she murmured, clutching her heart with her hand and biting her bottom lip.

"Turn your back. Keep me out."

Hazelle's head lowered, and her straight black hair fell in curtains over her face as she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. But she didn't answer him. She heard footsteps on the wood floor and then Haymitch was just a few feet behind her. She could feel his eyes on her back, burning through her, tearing down her walls. Why did he want to be let in so badly?

"What do you want from me?" she said in a small voice, still bent away from him.

Haymitch let out an angry breath in a huff. "What do _you_ want from _me_? I feel like we're running in circles here."

"I don't want…I don't want anything."

"Didn't seem that way last night."

Hazelle spun around, throwing the basket to the floor, fuming. "What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything," said Haymitch, raising his hands in front of him. "Just saying. _You_ came _here_. _You_ woke _me_ up to spill some heart-wrenching story about your dead husband—"

"I came _here_," spat Hazelle darkly, her eyes clouding over with fury, shadowing her otherwise weak, wounded expression, "to tell you to shape up or stay away from my daughter."

"Did you?" Haymitch replied, his habitual biting sarcasm creeping into his voice. "Because that's not what I heard."

"How dare you—"

"How dare _I_?" Haymitch interrupted, leaning forward towards Hazelle, his eyebrows shooting up. "How dare _you_? I hired you to clean this place up, and partially as a favor to Katniss, and you come in here—in _my_ house—telling me how to live my life and what I can and cannot do. I'm the reason you take home a paycheck each week. I'm the reason there's bread on your table. Without me, you and your children would starve. I think I have the right to be around them whenever the hell I want."

Hazelle's mouth dropped open, and she took a step forward and bent toward Haymitch as well. Their faces were inches apart, yet their voices were escalating to the level of screaming. "You have no right—"

"I have every goddamn right. You mope around and whine that I don't behave appropriately, when all you do is pull me a little closer then shove me away and lock yourself in. I'm trying to _know_ you, Hazelle! What the hell is so goddamn hard to see?"

"Trying to know _me_? I've tried understanding you—"

"But you can't, Hazelle. You'll never to understand what goes on in my big twisted head, right? I'm just too goddamn damaged. It's just too goddamn hard to get me to change. Wake up, sweetheart! People. Don't. Change."

"Haymitch—"

"No, you know what? Just shut up. Shut up for one _goddamn_ minute and let me talk!"

"Let _you_ talk? You never let _me_ talk!"

"Doesn't this sound familiar?" chided Haymitch condescendingly. "It always boils down to _you_, doesn't it? It's all about _you_ all the time, right? Let's forget talking about how messed up Haymitch is and listen to Hazelle gripe about how unfair _her_ life is!"

"You are the biggest, most horrible hypocrite I've ever met! I can't believe you're turning this around on _me_!" Hazelle was breathing heavily, her face flooded with color, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "All you ever say to me is that I don't understand, I can't understand—when you never _try_. You never even _try_ to help me understand."

"Look who's talking. You fell apart on me last night, or did that not happen in your pretty little head? Did you not come here and break down in my front room, in my arms?"

"I was not in your—"

"And when I try to get closer to you, just when I think you're going to let me in, you shut down and leave without a backward glance. If _I_ don't try to help you understand, what's to be said about _you_? Don't go pointing fingers if your own hands are not clean."

Before an eye could be blinked, Hazelle wound up and struck her open palm hard against Haymitch's cheek. A sharp _thwack_ing sound filled the hall, then both of them fell silent, accusations dying in their throats. Haymitch brought his hand up to feel the place Hazelle's own hand made contact, shocked expression of disbelief on his face. Hazelle covered her mouth, eyes wide, and started inching away.

Haymitch made eye contact and she shook her head vigorously.

"Did you just—?"

She nodded, horrified.

"You _slapped_ me." He dropped his hand from his face and Hazelle saw the red welt already forming there. She was _so_ losing her job.

"Oh, Haymitch—"

"I can't believe you fucking _slapped _me."

"Well if you hadn't been yelling at me!" cried Hazelle, suddenly back on the defensive.

"You were yelling right back, sweetheart."

Hazelle scowled at him, leaning forward again, closing the space between them, fuming. "You make me so _angry_, Haymitch! Why do you do this to people?" Haymitch was relaxing a bit, but Hazelle wasn't paying attention to him. If she had been, she might've seen the faintest trace of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "You just can't bear to lose an argument, can you? If you knew how to interact with people, things wouldn't get so…so out of hand! If you hadn't kept on winding me up, I wouldn't have hit you!" Haymitch nodded as if in agreement, but Hazelle kept going. "You need to know where to draw a line, Haymitch. You need to know when to stop. You need to understand that—"

Before Hazelle could finish her sentence, Haymitch grabbed her face with both his hands and pulled her to him, meeting her lips with his, cutting her off. Her words faded away and he was kissing her—wait, kissing her? How did that happen?

Her face was cradled in his hands, one on each side, tilted up to his, and he was kissing her like he meant it. He probably just wanted her to shut up, Hazelle told herself.

But man, that was one _really_ convincing kiss.

When he released her she stepped back, and so did he. They stared at each other for a few moments before Haymitch cleared his throat and Hazelle bent down to pick the laundry basket back up, smoothing her hair with the other hand and averting her eyes.

She mumbled something about the laundry and scurried off down the hall, leaving Haymitch standing there, staring after her.

He didn't disturb her as she scrubbed the laundry on the back steps, and she didn't go in for another water break. They both retreated into themselves for the afternoon, both wondering the same thing:

Where the hell did _that_ come from?

**Review. Seriously.**


	7. At Odds

A/N: Welcome back, loyal readers/reviewers! You know, all _three _of you! Cough, cough, REVIEW. But anyway (: I've had this chapter written for a few days so I think it's time to put it up now. It's not terribly exciting, not as action-packed as the previous, but there's some character and relationship development, blah blah blah. Just read it. Language warning has been activated. Enjoy! (:

**Chapter 7**

**At Odds**

She left. After she finished her work, she just left. She left quietly and inconspicuously; Haymitch had been upstairs and hadn't even heard her leave. Had he expected her to say something to him? Maybe. Had he expected her to throw herself into his arms and submit to wild desire? Unlikely. He wasn't sure exactly what he had expected Hazelle to do, but it was not creeping out without a word or…anything.

He hadn't meant to kiss her. He was just so mad and so was she, and then she slapped him and he saw the fire she possessed. He _wanted_ that fire. He wanted to taste her fury and feel what she was feeling—anything other than the overwhelming sorrow and self-loathing that had consumed him for twenty-five years. He wanted to burn in her rage. Impulsive, stupid, selfish, he told himself again and again. When was he going to learn to control himself?

But still. He had kissed her. Was she just not going to do anything about it? Was she going to pretend it never happened, like the other night? She couldn't do that! Haymitch wouldn't let her. Hazelle could convince herself to ignore something like this, but Haymitch would not forget.

He was alone now, pacing, thinking. He twirled a knife between his fingers absentmindedly, an old habit. It was dark out, so Haymitch was wide awake. That was nothing new. Alcohol sat untouched in the cupboards. Unusual.

* * *

Hazelle had finished at Haymitch's as quickly as possible, then slipped out as quietly as she could. She could hear Haymitch upstairs, moving around. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Then she left.

Now she was back home, Posy was fast asleep, Rory and Vick were in bed—not sleeping, horsing around a bit first, of course—but in bed, and Gale was just opening the door after a hard day of work in the mines; he had taken up a longer shift that day. He rubbed his exhausted eyes with the back of a coal-covered hand as he entered the kitchen. Hazelle was waiting for him, seated stock-still at the table.

"Mom?" he yawned.

"Welcome home, Gale. How was work?" Hazelle asked stiffly. How she hated small talk when there was more to be said.

"Hell," Gale replied. "How about you?"

Hazelle didn't say anything at first. Gale sat down to unlace his boots. The bulb overhead flickered dimly. Hazelle sighed. "It was…interesting."

Gale sat up and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. "Uh oh," he said. "Sounds like conflict. What did Haymitch do now?"

"Well," said Hazelle, fidgeting with her fingers on the table. "We got in a fight."

"What else is new?" Gale grumbled, standing back up to hang his filthy jacket on a peg beside the door. "Not many people can stand to be around the drunken bastard for very long. Don't know how you manage it."

"Gale," Hazelle said softly. "Be nice."

"Yeah, yeah. So what was it about this time?" He grabbed half a loaf of bread from the basket on the counter and returned to the table, taking a generous bite.

His mother didn't meet his gaze and continued quietly, "Doesn't matter, I suppose. But it was bad."

Gale chewed thoughtfully and looked at her.

"Really bad," she added. "We were screaming at each other—he was right in my face, and I was right in his, I suppose—and I, uh, I hit him."

"You _hit_ him?"

Hazelle nodded and bit her lip. "It was that bad."

"Wow," said Gale sarcastically, not sounding particularly impressed. "Good one. Out of work again?"

"No," said Hazelle, sounding surprised to her own ears. "Amazingly, no." She didn't include the unanticipated conclusion of the incident. She figured Gale didn't need to know that little detail.

"Well then," he said, finishing off the bread and standing up. "I'm going to bed. Have to work in the morning, you know. So do you, sounds like." He started for the hallway and his bedroom. "Good luck. 'Night."

"Goodnight," murmured Hazelle, still seated, motionless, at the table. Have to work in the morning, she thought. She wondered how seeing Haymitch the next day would go. She had a feeling he wouldn't just let this go like she so desperately wished he would. She should probably try to get some sleep, too.

* * *

As it turned out, Hazelle had no need to worry about facing Haymitch the next day, because he slept straight through her hours cleaning. The stillness throughout the house allowed her to dust the front room and downstairs bedrooms as well as wash and hang a bit more laundry and take care of a decent-sized stack of dirty dishes. She didn't dare step foot upstairs, where she knew Haymitch would be.

She returned home worn out but pleased with a well done day of hard work, yet some part of her felt unsatisfied. She almost…_wanted_ to run into Haymitch. She almost _wanted_ to have another heated, screaming fight with him. She wanted to feel frustration and anger rolling off him in waves, she wanted to feel his hands on her face again, she wanted to feel his lips against hers again…

Scratch that, she did _not_ want to feel anything about him again. No way.

Hazelle drifted off to sleep whispering to herself how much she was sure she didn't want Haymitch.

* * *

The day after that, Haymitch woke up before Hazelle finished work. After dressing and washing his face, he descended the stairs noiselessly and shuffled sheepishly into the kitchen, where Hazelle was scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees, long, dark hair knotted at the back of her head, slight sheen of sweat adorning her forehead. The afternoon sun was shining through the open window, pooling on the wet floor in bright patches. Hazelle was concentrating on her task and didn't hear Haymitch enter.

He leaned against the doorframe and cleared his throat.

Hazelle looked up, startled. "Haymitch," she said, sitting back and dropping her rag into the bucket on the floor beside her. "You're up."

He nodded. "I am."

An awkward silence fell between them, and Haymitch cleared his throat again. Hazelle brought her hand up to brush some hair behind her ear, but it fell to her lap again when she found nothing at her face. She looked intently at the drying floor.

"About the other day—" Haymitch began.

"Can we not talk about this?"

Haymitch pushed his tongue against his cheek and shifted from one foot to the other. "I think we should," he told her.

"I don't," replied Hazelle, taking the rag from the bucket and wringing it out, her eyes still cast downward.

"Well that's too damn bad," Haymitch said, frankly and easily, running his hand through his hair habitually and shrugging. "Because I think we need to talk about it, so we're talking about it."

Hazelle glanced up at him. "What's there to talk about?"

"Everything?" suggested Haymitch.

"Listen, Haymitch," Hazelle sighed. "I don't really know where that…incident came from the other day, but I don't think it meant anything, do you?"

Haymitch said nothing.

Hazelle scrubbed a spot off the floor in front of her. "Do you?" she repeated.

"Maybe."

"Honestly?"

"You honestly_ don't_ think it did?"

"I don't know," Hazelle groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "I don't know."

"See? It could have," said Haymitch triumphantly. "We've got plenty to talk about."

"Haymitch."

"Fine. I can see you're not in the mood to discuss this."

"Thank you," said Hazelle, slightly exasperated. She rose from the floor, carrying the bucket to the sink and dumping it out.

Haymitch stared at her back, refusing to let the topic go. In his head, the conversation raged on. On one side, Hazelle launched herself across the room to practically tackle him to the ground, attaching her mouth to his and crying out as a woman madly in love. This, obviously, was completely ridiculous. On the other side, she stared coldly at him as she told him she felt nothing for him, that she never wanted to see him again, before proceeding to quit and walking out silently.

The latter seemed more likely.

Hazelle probably did feel nothing for Haymitch, after all. He was pretty fucked up in the first place, and he was still struggling to sort out his feelings himself.

"I should probably get going," said Hazelle, waking Haymitch from his reverie. She was untying her apron over by the sink. Her hair was undone now, spilling over her shoulders in thick black waves. Haymitch couldn't take his eyes off her. "Rory and Vick will be home from school soon. They'll be excited; no classes tomorrow." She smiled faintly.

"You can take the day off if you want," said Haymitch. "You know, spend some time with them while they aren't in school and everything."

"Actually," she replied, setting her folded apron on the counter and crossing the kitchen to the doorway, "I was thinking about bringing them here."

Haymitch raised his eyebrows.

"They still want to meet you," Hazelle went on. "See your house and everything."

"You want your kids to meet me?"

"Posy met you," she said, then grinned. "She can't wait to see you again either." Haymitch's lips turned up into a smile as well at the mention of the delightful little girl. He led Hazelle to the door and opened it for her. "So," she said, "would that be alright? If I brought them all tomorrow?"

Haymitch nodded and leaned against the door as she stepped onto the porch. "Sure."

A small smile spread across Hazelle's face as she descended the front steps. She waved over her shoulder a little and started for the Victor's Village gates. Haymitch eased the door shut and returned to the kitchen thoughtfully, almost tiredly.

"Could use a drink," he muttered under his breath. He pulled a bottle down from the cupboard and removed the cap deftly, feeling as if he and Hazelle had accomplished a great deal of nothing with their exchange that day, and also, conflictingly, as if he might have been getting somewhere after all.

Haymitch thought of their argument two days earlier, he thought of Hazelle slapping him, and he thought of crushing his lips to hers. He thought of her children in his home, he thought of Gale suffocating in the mines, and he thought of Posy seeing him passed out in the street. He thought of blood gushing between his fingers as he fought for his life in the arena, and he thought of an axe burying itself in forty-seven skulls. He thought of forty-six other dead children, the past twenty-three years' worth of District 12 tributes, and he thought of Katniss and Peeta, the two he managed to get out of the Games alive. He thought of Hazelle, so good, so selfless, and he thought of himself. Disgusting. Pathetic.

He glanced at the open bottle in his hand, hesitated, then screwed the cap back on, placed it gently on the shelf, and shut the cupboard door.


	8. Haunted

A/N: Shortest chapter yet, I think; poo. Didn't mean for that to happen. This chapter was actually supposed to be the next chapter, with Hazelle and the kids or whatever, but it somehow developed into this mildly creepy, short little thing, and I didn't write from Hazelle's POV at all! This focuses more on Haymitch--and Katniss too I suppose--and just how messed up he is, and how he's trying not to turn to alcohol for all his problems anymore. I tried a new POV too ;) I promise I'll get back on the Hazelle/Haymitch pairing in the next chapter :P Promise promise promise!

**Chapter 8**

**Haunted**

The cupboard remained shut, the alcohol inside, out of sight, but Haymitch's night did not go smoothly, and several times he was tempted to yank it open it, grab a bottle, and fall back on his old fix. He found he nearly went insane without it, but he did not surrender to his dependency.

The sun sank below the horizon and night fell over the Victor's Village. The windows were black, reflecting Haymitch's anxious face back at him every time he passed one. He eventually had to draw all the curtains in the damned place.

The house was plagued with darkness. It enveloped him and cast flickering shadows over the walls like malevolent phantoms. But the real ghosts were inside of Haymitch, screaming like banshees, banging on the inside of his chest and hammering in his head, haunting his every thought. He couldn't escape the chilling memories at night. They thrived in the dark.

He paced the polished wood floor, knife gripped firmly in hand, starting at even the slightest sound. Dead children lay slumped in the shadowy corners of every room, sinister red eyes staring accusingly at him. Some faces he recognized, and some he didn't. They were all eerily pale and blood-spattered, wide-eyed with gaping mouths. Powerless victims searching for a place to lay the blame.

Haymitch turned on every light in his house and returned to the front room to sit. He seized the armrests of the chair in which he sat with shaking hands and tried to take deep, slow breaths.

You don't need it, he told himself.

A little girl in the corner tilted her head at him, her eyes glassy and unseeing. Blank. Dead. She reminded him of Prim Everdeen. He shuddered at the thought.

You don't need it, he repeated in his mind. You're fine. You don't need it.

A dark-haired boy lurched in from the hall and lay twitching on the floor, a deep red stain spreading on the carpet beneath him. Haymitch stared straight out the front window, whose blinds were the only ones not drawn, and refused to look at the corpses surrounding him. He knew they weren't real, but they still terrified him.

Haymitch noticed there was a light on in the lower level of the Everdeen residence. He checked the time. Two o'clock. He remembered that Katniss suffered from recurring nightmares as well, and considered crossing the wide green between their homes to quell the solitary horrors of nighttime with her. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't alone.

He stood up and stepped over the place the boy's body would be without glancing at it, leaving the room behind and heading down the hallway toward the front door. He passed the kitchen and shot a fleeting look in at the cupboard, inside which he knew there was liquor. He knew, behind that little door, there was relief, an escape. He knew he could easily take it and numb the pain he felt, lock all the ghosts away and fall into a dreamless daze. It was easy to do. It was all he had ever done. It was all he knew how to do.

But this time he didn't. He turned his back on the closed cupboard door and continued outside and across the lawn at a brisk pace, too scared of darkness and the lingering shrieks of horrible phantoms to hesitate and change his mind.

* * *

A cup of tea sat untouched on the table before Katniss. She stirred it absentmindedly with a tiny silver spoon and fixed her eyes on a spot on the opposite wall. She had jolted awake, tangled in her sheets and soaked in a layer of cold sweat twenty minutes earlier—no screaming, which was unusual, but something she was glad for so she didn't wake Prim or her mother. She found no comfort in their prescence when things like this happened. This was just something they could never understand.

Katniss sighed and glanced down at her tea, churning around chaotically in the perfect china teacup. Oh how this cup of tea was like her life, spinning out of control on the inside while the exterior remained a flawless façade.

She was brought back to reality by the sound of the front door creaking open followed by footsteps in the entryway. She didn't rise from her seat but looked toward the kitchen doorway, slightly perplexed. Who would be visiting her at this hour? Peeta? Gale maybe? She drew her knife and held it at the ready under the table just in case she needed it to fend off an intruder.

Surprise lit her features as Haymitch walked into her kitchen at two in the morning, looking more sober and more shaken up than she had ever seen him.

"Haymitch?" she said in disbelief, slackening her grip on the blade beneath the table.

He nodded and lowered himself into the chair across from her. "This seat taken?"

Katniss shook her head, still staring at him in astonishment.

"You're up late," noted Haymitch offhandedly.

"So are you."

"Touché."

Katniss smirked a bit and relaxed.

"What are you doing with a knife?" Haymitch chided mockingly. "A little girl like you could hurt herself with a big weapon like that."

She scowled, dropping the knife onto the table and retorting, "What about _you_? An old man could hurt himself with a rusty blade like that."

"Touché," Haymitch said again, placing his own knife on the table beside Katniss's and grinning.

Katniss swirled the tea around her cup with the spoon again. "So," she said.

Haymitch raised his eyebrows.

"May I ask what you're doing in my house in the middle of the night?" she asked, lifting her own brow.

He leaned back in the chair and settled his hands over his stomach. "I figure we're in the same business," he declared, and Katniss's eyebrows arched higher. He tipped his head at her and said, "Nightmares."

Katniss's haunted grey eyes bore into Haymitch's matching ones, and she felt as if she understood him now more than ever before, and as if he might be able to understand her as well.

"Does it ever get better?" Katniss whispered.

Haymitch dropped his gaze and gave a small shake of his head. "I'm afraid not, sweetheart. Look at me. It's been how many years and I still haven't recovered."

"Do you think you ever will?"

"Doubt it," Haymitch replied honestly. "I don't think anyone ever does."

Katniss nodded solemnly and resumed stirring her tea in silence.

* * *

Haymitch sat with Katniss for hours, mutely for the most part, but occasionally exchanging a few words. It was the company that mattered to both of them. Morning was dawning as Haymitch crossed the courtyard, heading back home. Soft pink light flooded the Victor's Village, casting a hopeful glow over everything, and he felt better.

He didn't fear the shadows within the walls of his house as he pushed the front door open and entered noiselessly. He shut the door and trudged up the stairs, rubbing his tired eyes with his fist and yawning widely. It had been a long, sober night.

As Haymitch shuffled into the upstairs bedroom, he cracked a sleepy grin at how welcoming and comfortable the large, carefully-made bed looked. He threw himself down and burrowed under the covers, glad for the square of sunshine the east window was letting into the room. He felt safe. He could sleep.

But then—_shit_. He remembered:

The Hawthornes were coming.


	9. Impossibilities

A/N: Chapter 9! Woot woot! It's really long to make up for the lack of length in the previous chapter, and it's primarily from Hazelle's POV to make up for her absence in the last one. (: Language warning is in effect. Please please please review!

**Chapter 9**

**Impossibilities**

"Day off?" said Gale as he removed his dusty miner's jacket from the peg by the door and shoved one arm into a sleeve.

"Hmm?" Hazelle looked up from her breakfast at him.

"You're staying home today, right? Rory and Vick don't have school." He thrust his other arm into the jacket and shrugged it over his shoulders. "There's nowhere else for them to go."

"Oh, don't worry about it, Gale," she said, rising from her seat at the table and carrying her dishes to the sink. "I'm just going to take them to Haymitch's with me."

Gale said nothing, eyes narrowed, while his mother rinsed her dishes and dried her hands. She turned from the sink, smoothing her dark hair back with one hand and straightening her skirt with the other. Pale morning light shined through the narrow window across the room and lit her up like an angel, practically glowing.

"Taking them to meet their new daddy, I suppose?" spat Gale, spinning on his heel and stomping out the door.

Hazelle dropped her hands, mouth falling open slightly, brow crinkling into a wounded expression. "Gale," she called, following him into the tiny, shabby yard. "Gale, what's wrong with you? What are you talking about?"

"Like you can't see it," he seethed, halting before the gate and rocking on the balls of his feet.

"See what? What's wrong?" Hazelle hesitated just outside the door, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt and chewing her bottom lip. She was a creature of habit.

"I'm so sick of this act, Hazelle."

She recoiled sharply. He never called her by her name.

"I know what game you're playing," Gale went on, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. "And it makes me so sick."

"Gale—"

"It's because he's rich, right? You're doing it for the money, so we're secure?"

"Doing what? I'm not—"

"Well don't. I'd rather starve to death than take that man's charity. I'd rather suffocate in a coal mine than watch you pretend to love him. You don't need to make yourself look like a fool so we can live comfortably and have food to eat. We've been able to get by this long, haven't we?"

"Gale," said Hazelle, her voice hard, her eyes steely. "Whatever you think is going on…isn't."

"That's the worst part of all this!" Gale shouted, turning back around, livid. "You're acting like it's not happening, this pathetic little show. Do you have any idea how stupid you look right now?"

Hazelle's eyes turned to icy daggers; she wore a cold mask and spoke as a motionless, unfeeling statue might. "Gale Luxe Hawthorne. You will not speak to your mother like that."

"Whatever," muttered Gale, half-turning toward the gate again. "I'm out of here. Just know that I will never pretend _Haymitch Abernathy_ is my father. You might be able to win over Posy and Rory and Vick, but I will never play along. That's just disgusting."

He swung the gate open roughly and started stalking down the street. Hazelle stood in the doorway and watched him go. Before she was out of earshot, he glanced back over his shoulder and spat icily:

"You know it's impossible to replace Dad."

* * *

Hazelle had a horrible sick feeling that twisted her stomach all morning. She roused the boys and Posy mechanically, helping them into their clothes and preparing their breakfast without saying much.

"Mr. Haymitch's today?" Posy kept asking excitedly. Hazelle just nodded.

Rory and Vick exchanged wild theories of what mysteries and adventures awaited them inside Haymitch's house and the Victor's Village as a whole. Hazelle tried her best to tune them out. She couldn't see how she could back out of this now, but she really didn't want to see Haymitch today. Not after Gale made her feel so awful and guilty about it.

She wasn't putting on an act, was she? No, she wasn't getting closer to Haymitch for his money. She wasn't trying to get any sympathy from him. She wasn't pretending to fall in love with him. She wasn't falling in love with him for real either, she told herself. They were just two lonely, broken people trying their best to fix each other.

Hazelle herded the kids out of the house and through the Seam to the Victor's Village. Posy held her mother's hand while Rory and Vick ran ahead, shouting and being their usual rowdy selves. Hazelle called for them to settle down faintly, still preoccupied.

Posy squeezed her mother's hand, and Hazelle glanced down at her. "Smile, mommy."

She did, but it was halfhearted. What if Posy started calling Haymitch daddy? Would that be wrong? Gale seemed to think so. Would it be disrespecting their father's memory? Hazelle didn't know. Maybe.

"Be quiet now," she told Rory and Vick gently as they climbed the steps to Haymitch's front door.

"Mr. Haymitch might be sleeping," whispered Posy, pressing her finger to her lips.

They entered the silent house and stood in the entryway for a moment. Then Hazelle nudged them forward, down the hall. "Head outside for a bit," she said. "Go play." The boys scampered through the house and out the back door. Hazelle winced as the screen slammed shut.

"I'll wait," Posy told her, releasing her hand and taking a seat on the bottom step, "right here."

Hazelle nodded and stroked the top of her dark little head. "Alright, sweetie. I'm going to see if Mr. Haymitch is upstairs, okay?" Posy bobbed her head up and down and folded her hands in her lap. "Be good," Hazelle instructed as she began ascending the staircase. Posy nodded again, and Hazelle continued the rest of the way upstairs.

Sure enough, she found a snoring heap under the fluffy covers of the massive bed in the first bedroom.

"Haymitch," she whispered, stooping down to be closer to his level. He was completely buried under the blankets and pillows. "Wake up." The mound did not stir. Hazelle rolled her eyes and blew a thin stream of air from between her lips, lifting a few strands of hair from her forehead. "Haymitch," she said again, shaking him a little. "Are you hungover?"

"No," came his muffled reply from under the pillows. "I made it the whole goddamn night without a goddamn drink, you heartless bitch. You're fucking welcome."

Hazelle's eyebrows knit together as she shushed him. "Language," she warned. "My kids are here."

Haymitch lifted his head slightly. "All of them?"

"Well, not Gale," she said, her voice sounding slightly strained, "but, you know, the younger ones."

His head plopped back down. "Yeah, alright. I'll be down. Give me a minute."

"Thanks, Haymitch," she said, straightening up and starting for the hall. There she paused, hesitating in the doorway, Haymitch still face down in bed behind her. "For not drinking, too. It must be hard for you."

He grumbled a bit from under the covers.

"But thanks," she repeated. "I'll leave breakfast on the table. We'll be out back."

Haymitch grunted his acknowledgement and Hazelle left him in peace, picking up Posy on the bottom step and carrying her to the backyard, where Rory and Vick were already engaged in some loud, strenuous game and dry laundry swayed in the breeze, waiting for her attention, but not before setting some toast and berries out for Haymitch.

She used to put breakfast on the table at home for her husband before he went to work in the mines in the morning. She pushed the thought from her mind as she left the kitchen and went to start taking down laundry.

Maybe Gale was right. Hazelle couldn't compare Haymitch to the father of her children, the man she married. Something didn't feel right about it.

* * *

Haymitch rolled out of bed, showered quickly, threw on some clean clothes, and traipsed heavily down the stairs, still half asleep. He shoveled in the small breakfast waiting for him on the table, set the plate in the sink, then headed out the back door.

Hazelle was removing sheets and trousers from the clothesline, folding them and placing them in a basket at her feet while Rory and Vick chased each other around the yard and Posy wandered from one end to the other, examining the lawn thoroughly. Haymitch watched, smiled a little sadly, and leaned against the doorframe, stuffing his hands in his pockets. A pleasant breeze blew through the orange and red leaves on the trees. It was one of the last warm days of autumn; he could feel it in the air. Winter would be coming soon.

Filling the basket with one more sheet, Hazelle lifted it and headed toward the door. Spotting Haymitch, the corners of her lips tugged upward and she nodded at him. He stepped away from the door so not to block her path as she brushed past, arms full of fresh laundry.

"Thank you," she murmured, continuing inside briefly.

The children also noticed Haymitch's appearance. Posy broke out into a wide grin and toddled over to where he was; Rory and Vick sprinted ahead of her to introduce themselves. Haymitch listened to them rant about how apparently astounding they found the Victor's Village, and answered their questions patiently.

"Do you have a hovercraft?" asked Vick eagerly.

"Afraid not, kiddo."

"What about an elevator? Do you have one of those?" Rory chimed in.

"Can't say I do."

"Do you get to slide down the railing on your big staircase?"

"If I want to," Haymitch replied with a wink.

"Can _we_?" the boys cried, jumping up and down.

"Go for it."

They rushed into the house as Hazelle pushed the screen door open to exit. Posy trailed after her brothers, and Hazelle let the door fall shut. Haymitch was facing away from her, a hand covering his eyes, his shoulders slightly hunched.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

"I don't know."

"Rough night?" She came up beside him and laid a hand on his arm.

"It doesn't go away," he whispered hopelessly, rubbing his eyes but not removing his hand from his face. "It never goes away. I look at those kids and see them slaughtering each other in the arena. I see them dying."

Hazelle rested her cheek against his shoulder and sighed. She didn't know what to say to him. This wasn't something she knew how to handle.

"Do you know what that's like?"

"No," she said, her voice sounding small and distant, a million miles away. "I can't imagine what that's like." She stroked his arm softly and added, "But they're my children, and the fear of losing them to the Games is with me in everything I do for them. It's something everyone has to live with."

Haymitch exhaled deeply and kept his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," said Hazelle, closing her eyes as well. "Maybe I shouldn't have brought them."

"No, it's okay," Haymitch assured her. "I want to meet them. I think." He let his hand fall to his side and tilted his face skyward, sighing again. "I just…don't want to know them if they're going to die."

"Everyone dies, Haymitch."

"I know that."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't live."

And Haymitch knew she was right, somewhere deep inside. He just didn't want to. All he'd wanted to do since the day his name was called at the second Quarter Quell Reaping was die.

Because once the Capitol has you, there's no way for you to truly live, and there's no way for you to truly die. If you're one of the remembered few, your name will live on infamously in Hunger Games history once you're gone, but you yourself will never live. Your future is stolen, your hope is stolen, your love is stolen, and your life is stolen. You're a pawn in the Capitol's Games. Not a person. Not a player. A puppet. A plaything.

That's not living. That's worse than dying: living completely and absolutely alone, used, isolated in a broken solitude that no one can understand. There's no help. There's no end. There's only suffering.

And who was Haymitch to try and share that suffering with someone else? Someone so much better than him it hurt to think about? Someone with more to offer than he could ever hope to provide in return? And he couldn't be around those children. He couldn't watch them grow up only to destroy. He couldn't get close to them only to lose them unjustly to the Games someday.

The world had made a cruel joke of him, needing someone so badly and not being able to let anyone in.

How could he possibly love anyone when he'd known nothing but solitary hatred all this time?

How could he learn to live when all he'd ever wanted to do was die?


	10. Someone for Saving

**Chapter 10**

**Someone for Saving**

"You're right," said Haymitch quietly. It sounded more like a question, uncertain. He pulled Hazelle around to his front and embraced her gently. "It doesn't mean we shouldn't live."

She blinked, a little stunned by his close proximity, before wrapping her arms around him and resting her head against his chest. It was a little awkward, she had to admit, but she knew he needed to feel close to something, someone. He needed something to quench the unbearable loneliness that was slowly and agonizingly killing him. She might have been suffering from the same thirst herself, but she couldn't say for sure. "Okay," she murmured.

"But Hazelle?" he said.

She could feel his breath mingling with the hair atop her head. She closed her eyes and whispered, "Yes?"

At first Haymitch didn't say anything. They stood on his back steps together in silence, the warm autumn sun shining down on them and the cool beginnings of winter creeping into the air through the floating breeze. It was the most peaceful moment they had ever experienced together. No one was shouting, no one was accusing, no one was resenting. They were just trying to understand.

"I don't know how," Haymitch finally said.

* * *

She was so warm against his chest. Warm and motionless. Haymitch felt a little less broken this way, like she was holding him together. He was trying to breathe under the unfathomably heavy wave of grief that was threatening to consume him, and she was acting as his lifeline, keeping him barely afloat, a task previously taken on by alcohol.

He wasn't sure which he preferred, actually, because he still felt something here. He still hurt somewhere—as he was sure he always would—but at least it wasn't the dull ache of loneliness. For the first time in his life, Haymitch Abernathy had someone to carry him out of the darkness.

Hazelle withdrew from him a little, lifting her chin to look up into his eyes. "Step one," she said, dropping her arms and sidestepping towards the back door. "Let yourself love something." She opened the door and stepped inside.

Haymitch stood on the steps a moment longer, blinking back the bright sunshine and staring at the closed door. What the hell was the woman talking about? It couldn't be… He followed her into the house and strode down the hall, the lively laughter of Rory, Vick, and Posy filling the house gaily. No, of course it couldn't be. She meant them.

"It's my turn!" shrieked Posy, swaying on the top stair, a bit red in the face, her lower lip trembling.

"Just wait," said Rory, who was perched on the railing beside her, preparing to launch himself down.

"Careful!" Hazelle was standing fretfully at the bottom of the stairs with Vick, twisting the hem of her skirt anxiously in her hands. "Can't you just walk down nicely?"

Rory let go of the banister and flew down on his rear, howling with delighted laughter the whole time. His mother drew in a sharp breath as her hand flew to cover her face. He landed nimbly in front of her with a light thud and raised his arms above his head like an Olympic gymnast.

"Ta-da!"

"Don't do that!" Hazelle scolded, straightening his collar and fixing his hair. "You could get seriously hurt."

"Aw, Mom!" whined Rory, swatting her hands away.

"I mean it. Just because—"

"Posy!" Vick cried, horrified, pointing up the stairs at his sister. Hazelle and Rory looked up as well, just in time to see Posy release the railing with her tiny hands and start to slide, wobbling slightly, far too fast for such a small person. She wouldn't be able to catch herself in time.

Haymitch saw it too.

He caught her as she passed the railing's halfway point, sweeping her into his arms and swinging her around once before placing her gently on the floor. She gaped up at him for a moment, bewildered, before breaking out into a wide grin, rosy cheeks dimpling adorably.

"Again," she demanded.

Haymitch just stared at her. Behind the child, Hazelle's mouth dropped open. She started to laugh and covered her mouth with her hand. The boys turned green with envy. Haymitch chuckled as well, shaking his head.

"Sorry, kiddo," he said, picking Posy up again but making no move to approach the staircase. "I think once was quite enough."

Posy pouted a bit but didn't otherwise protest. She let Haymitch tow her back outside, followed closely by Hazelle, Rory and Vick. The boys commenced another rowdy game and Posy settled quietly onto the back steps.

"Thanks," Hazelle breathed in Haymitch's ear as she brushed past him to resume work on the laundry line.

Haymitch smiled vaguely and lowered himself onto the steps beside Posy. She was swinging her little feet back and forth and watching her brothers chase each other around the lawn.

"Mr. Haymitch," she said absently, eyes still on the boys.

"Yeah?"

Posy turned her face up toward him and smiled sweetly. "I like you."

"I like you too, kiddo," Haymitch replied, ruffling her hair playfully with one hand. "So don't go sailing down the stairs again anytime soon. Wouldn't want anything to happen to this pretty little head, would we?"

"Thanks for letting us come visit you." She returned her attention to Rory and Vick. "I like it here."

Haymitch followed her gaze to the yard, but his eyes fell not upon the boys. He laid them instead upon Hazelle. She was taking sheets down again, her hair drifting around her face in the gentle breeze. She paused for a moment to brush a strand out of her eyes, as she often did, then caught sight of Haymitch watching her. She smirked and waved a little. He nodded at her before looking back down at Posy.

"It's a lot better when you're all here, let me tell you that."

The little girl beamed at him and took his large hand in her tiny one. "Mr. Haymitch," she repeated. "I like you."

"I like you too," he said again, giving her hand a small squeeze and glancing back up at Hazelle. "Very much," he added, a smile just barely dancing across his lips.

* * *

The day's work was done and the sun was nearing the horizon, slanting its fading light across the Victor's Village courtyard. Hazelle was kneeling on the floor, buttoning Posy's coat as Rory and Vick sprinted ahead out the door. Haymitch leaned against the wall nearby, hands shoved into his pockets, as was his habit.

"Go on now, you little daredevil," said Hazelle, rising from her knees and shooing Posy out the door. "Go catch up to your brothers." The little girl toddled outside, leaving Hazelle and Haymitch alone in the entryway.

"They're great," noted Haymitch as Hazelle removed her coat from a peg and shrugged it onto her thin shoulders.

"Yeah?" replied Hazelle. "You don't mind having them?"

Haymitch shook his head. "Not a bit."

A grin spread across Hazelle's face as she buttoned her own jacket. "Oh, good. They absolutely adore you."

Haymitch shrugged. "Yeah, well."

"I'd better take them home." Hazelle smoothed the front of her tattered jacket and made a move toward the door. Haymitch's heart tugged at his chest as he realized he would soon be left alone and night would be upon him. He knew very well what that meant.

"Wait—"

Hazelle paused in the doorway and glanced back at Haymitch.

"Could you—" He heaved himself from his place against the wall and grabbed the door beside her. "Could you maybe, um, stay?"

She blinked at him. "Stay?"

Haymitch caught sight of Rory, Vick, and Posy in the yard behind her. "Not now, of course," he said quickly. "I mean—could you maybe come…nights?"

Hazelle blinked again.

"Watch Posy at home during the day, you know, and then when Gale gets home—come then?"

"At night?" Hazelle's eyebrows shot up and her eyes grew wide.

"Oh—no, I didn't mean—"

"Are you—?"

"No, Hazelle, I just mean…" Haymitch shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. "I just mean," he lowered his voice, "that it's…not good for me at night." He glanced nervously across the green at the Everdeen residence. "You know." He nodded towards Katniss's house. "Nightmares," he mumbled finally, a bit sheepishly.

Hazelle relaxed and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "Of course, Haymitch. Whatever you want."

She gave his arm a slight squeeze and stepped out the door to her waiting children, leaving him in the doorway staring after her, part of him dreading the coming horrors of the night and another part relieved that it would be the last time he'd have to face them by himself.

He eased the door shut as the sun eased itself behind the rooftops of District 12. The light left the world at the same time the light left Haymitch's life. He had to repeat to himself that the darkness was temporary. But it always seemed to last an eternity when there was no one to save him from the night.

Just tonight, he told himself, hesitating before the closed cupboard door. Tomorrow will be better. He continued on to endure the ghosts sober and alone once again. Just tonight.


	11. Unfixable

A/N: It's been far too long, and I apologize, but I also thank everybody who has continued to review and encourage me to continue. I'll do my best. So with no further ado, the long-awaited, highly-anticipated NEW CHAPTER! Language warning is in effect for Haymitch and his mouth. Enjoy!

**Chapter 11**

**Unfixable**

Darkness descended, as it always did. Haymitch paced, wringing his sweaty hands and nervously glancing at the darkening world outside. It always began like this. It always ended with a bottle of whiskey and a helpless drowning feeling.

God, he needed help.

_Haymitch_, the bottles from the cupboard called softly. _We'll help you._

Haymitch clutched his head in his hands, knotting his thick hair in his fingers and squeezing his eyes shut. The voices continued.

_You can't do this alone_, they hummed. _You can't do anything alone._

Haymitch shook his head roughly and clenched his teeth together.

_You can't do anything without us._

"Shut _up_!" he shouted, lurching toward the doorway and slamming his fists into the paneling. "Oh God, oh God." He stumbled into the kitchen and to the cupboard, its closed face laughing silently at him. "God help me," he murmured frantically as he wrenched the cupboard door from its hinges and pulled a bottle down. It felt right in his hand, like it belonged there. "God," Haymitch groaned, sinking to his knees then slumping against the counter with the bottle clutched tightly to his chest.

He'd never gone very long without a drink. Ugly things happened to his mind without alcohol.

They were happening now.

Oh God, they were happening.

Haymitch's whole body was trembling uncontrollably, the glass bottle rattling against the buttons on his shirt as his hands shook with the rest of him. A cold sheen of sweat coated his face and neck and his pulse pounded in his ears over the whisper of the addiction.

_Open it._

_Let us help you._

Haymitch's vision blurred as tears of agony and desperation filled his eyes. It had never been this bad. He'd always quelled the pain before it got this bad. And he wanted to now. He _needed_ to now.

What was he supposed to do?

He brought the bottle to his face unsteadily and leaned against it, feeling the glass cool his burning face. He let his eyelids fall shut and tried to breathe deeply and evenly. Hazelle didn't like him to drink. She wouldn't let him see Posy or the boys if he drank. He couldn't be part of any of their lives if he drank.

But…

He couldn't _not_ drink.

Haymitch could barely hear himself think over the incessant ringing in his ears. His throat felt rough and dry like he had just swallowed sandpaper. He was still shaking. He could feel himself losing it. He _needed_ that drink.

The cap of the bottle came unscrewed slowly in Haymitch's quivering hands, his eyes still closed. He shuddered as it slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a distant clink. The noise sounded miles away. Haymitch allowed his eyes to open as he shifted the bottle from his face to the swimming space before him.

It was half empty.

But it was fuller than the rest of his life, and he'd always taken half empty over completely empty.

Relief was inches from his lips. He stared hard at the bottle, a stream of sweat trickling from his forehead. His tongue itched for the burning taste; his throat throbbed for the shower of flames.

Haymitch brought the bottle to his lips, closing his eyes again gently. His pulse sped in anticipation. The voice of addiction trilled triumphantly:

_We told you, Haymitch._

He tipped the bottle up just slightly, tilting his head back and listening to the alcohol flow against the glass.

_We told you._

_

* * *

_

Katniss crossed the green to Haymitch's warily, unsure of herself with every step. She liked having someone who understood her. Not just to talk to. Not even to talk to. Just to sit with her. The night spent at her kitchen table with Haymitch made her feel like maybe she wasn't bearing all the weight of the Hunger Games by herself.

Maybe she could share it with somebody after all.

But Haymitch?

Katniss had never gotten along with him particularly well, and he could upset her with one word and an eye roll like no one else could. He was unstable on the best of days and out of control on the worst. He didn't want anyone close to him. He didn't want anyone to share the weight with him.

All Katniss could do was try, and she might as well.

What had she to lose?

Haymitch's front door was before her suddenly and she found herself hesitating. The horizon glowed faintly behind her and shadows grew all around. Refuge seemed unlikely but not impossible. If it was anywhere it was behind this door.

Katniss laughed and wiped her palms on her pants. "Haymitch," she whispered. "Who would've thought?"

She raised her closed fist to knock but paused again. She licked her lips and cleared her throat. Why was this so difficult?

"Katniss," she said softly, just to remind herself she was okay, then rapped her knuckles on Haymitch's door.

The sound shattered the night into a million pieces.

* * *

Haymitch cursed under his breath and withdrew his lips from the bottle as a knock at the door echoed behind his throbbing temples. He cursed again, hurled the bottle across the room and lurched to his feet. It smashed against a leg of the table as Haymitch reached the doorway to the hall, sweating and shaking.

He clung to the doorknob when he reached it, panting.

"Haymitch?" came a familiar voice from outside.

Katniss.

Christ.

Haymitch pulled the door open to meet the gaze of the girl on the other side. She looked like a dream, Haymitch thought. He needed a goddamned drink but promised a family he didn't. He needed someone to tell him he wasn't a monster but wouldn't listen if anyone tried. He needed to try to be something other than what he was but didn't know where to start. He needed to tell somebody and here was this girl in front of him.

When would he learn?

He couldn't do anything alone.

"Katniss," he said, and opened the door further. Katniss stepped inside and Haymitch shut the door behind her. "Are you—?"

"Sorry," she said quickly. "I just—I thought maybe..." She took a deep breath and shook her head. "I just thought you might sit up with me again? If you're not—I mean, you don't have to."

Haymitch felt his heart slow a little bit. He watched Katniss struggle with her words and almost felt better.

"Is this weird?"

Haymitch shrugged. His throat was still burning.

"Should I go?" Katniss moved toward the door but Haymitch stopped her with his hand.

"Stay." His voice was low and he was sure he didn't sound half as fine as he wanted Katniss to think he was. He hated looking weak to her, the girl he was supposed to be mentoring. But she seemed to understand him, at least part of the time. So maybe she knew his weakness even when he tried not to show it. Maybe she knew him better than he thought she did. He hated the thought, but kept it in his mind anyway. "I mean, you don't have to," he added, trying to lighten the mood.

Katniss offered a weak smile, then nodded and led him into the kitchen. "What happened here?" she asked, picking the broken bottle up off the floor as Haymitch followed her in.

"I haven't had a goddamn drink in so goddamn long." Haymitch ran the back of his hand over his brow and dropped into a chair at the table. "And it's _hard_."

Katniss carried the pieces to the trash and tipped them in, then turned around and leaned against the counter, looking steadily at her mentor as he sank his head into his hands. He was still shaking and he knew she could see. He couldn't bear to look up at her.

"It's hard, Haymitch. I know," she murmured.

He scoffed slightly under his breath, his face still hidden from her. "You don't fucking _know_,'re not _me_. It's so much harder than I'm sure you _know_."

"Then explain it to me."

Haymitch glanced up at her. Her expression had not changed. He lowered his head again and tried to describe his nightmare to her. If she heard it she might be able to imagine it, and she might be able to help him. God, he needed her help. "It's like...it's like I'm dying—like I'm already dead. I see things that aren't there, I think about things I don't want to remember, and I feel trapped." He looked back at her quickly then elaborated. "If I drink Hazelle's going to throw a fucking fit and if I don't drink...I'm afraid_ I_ will. In a worse way."

"So it's about Hazelle."

"It's not about Hazelle. It's about what not drinking is going to do to me."

"What do you mean?"

Haymitch sighed heavily. "Like...I'm going to break. Like it's the only thing holding me together."

Katniss moved silently across the kitchen and lowered herself into the seat across from Haymitch. "Is she worth all that?"

Haymitch raised his eyes. "What?"

"Hazelle. Is she worth breaking for?"

"No," he said immediately. "Nothing's worth breaking for."

"Am I worth breaking for? Is Peeta? Were all those kids you killed in your Hunger Games?"

"Why do you always have to make it about the goddamn Games?" spat Haymitch, reddening and pulling his head out of his hands.

"Because it always _is_ about the Games! You _are_ the Games. Everything you _do_ is about the Games. You drink, you curse, you hate everybody—including yourself—and what for? The Hunger Games. As much as you want to forget, Haymitch, you never will. You of all people should know that. You're the one who taught me that."

"My...relationship with Hazelle and her family have nothing to do with the Hunger Games."

"I thought it wasn't about Hazelle."

"Shut the fuck up, Katniss. You don't know anything." Haymitch turned his head away from her and stared hard at the black glass of the window.

A veil of silence fell over the man and the girl at the table. Haymitch was hiding behind it. He didn't know what Katniss was doing with it.

After a minute she rose from her seat. Haymitch still did not look at her.

He heard her footsteps cross the kitchen, but not toward the door.

"Can I ask you a question again?" she asked.

Haymitch did not reply.

"Haymitch?"

"What question?"

He heard Katniss's feet shuffle quietly. "Am I worth breaking for?"

"You?"

He heard a cupboard open and close, then another.

"Why would I have to break for you?"

She didn't say anything. Haymitch paused for a moment, then continued.

"I don't think I'd ever have to, Katniss."

"Why wouldn't you have to?"

She strode back to the table and set a glass in front of Haymitch. He turned his head to look first at the glass, then up at Katniss, standing beside him with a bottle in her hand.

"Because," he whispered, staring back down at the glass, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "Because you know me well enough not to make me."

"Right," she said, uncapping the bottle and filling the glass with its contents. She replaced the cap and set the bottle beside the glass before returning to her seat across from Haymitch. "I would never make you break for me, Haymitch. I know you. I know what you've been through, okay? I do know. I've been through the same thing. That's why I let you drink, and that's why I would never ask you to stop completely. You need it. It's your escape. I get it, okay? I'm not as stupid as you think I am."

"I don't think you're stupid," said Haymitch, still staring at the glass in front of him.

Katniss stared at it for a moment too. "Then don't tell me I don't know anything."

"I'm sorry."

Haymitch's eyes were fixed upon the glass, the alcohol, the relief, the escape. His escape. Katniss was looking at it too. She wanted him to take it. She sounded like she really did get it. Could she? Could she possibly understand him well enough to let him destroy himself like he wanted to? Or was it her way of preventing him from destroying himself at all? Maybe drinking was the opposite for him, because he was already as broken as he could get, and the alcohol was the painkiller that numbed him, held the pieces of him together while someone tried their best to fix him. Was Katniss trying to fix him? Was Hazelle?

Could he be fixed at all?

"Drink it, Haymitch, for Christ's sake," Katniss said, leaning back in her chair, shifting her gaze from the glass to Haymitch's face. "You look awful."


End file.
